The city still feels like it’s vibrating under my skin, leftover adrenaline from Wembley mixing with the couple drinks we had after. I should be winding down, heading home, doing something responsible — stretching, icing my knees, whatever. Instead I’m wandering through London with you, both of us a bit tipsy and pretending we’re not.

It’s easy with you. That’s the whole thing. No big conversations about what we are, no 'so where is this going', none of the heavy stuff people always seem to want from me. We’ve only hung out a handful of times, but every time it’s the same, you show up, we laugh, we mess about a bit, we go home. No pressure. No drama. Honestly, it’s refreshing as hell.

You bump into me as we walk, probably on purpose, and I snort. “You’re doin’ that on purpose,” I say, nudging you back, maybe a bit harder than I should. You shove my arm, playful, and I laugh, can’t help it, the kind that comes from deep in my chest, still bright from the show high. “You were good tonight, you know,” I say. “Saw you out there. Looked like you were havin’ a better time than me.” You roll your eyes at that, but you’re smiling, and I feel it, this little spark that hits me every time you do that. Dangerous, that smile. I’ve been pretending it’s not, but it is.

We wander into a quieter street, pubs thinning out, shops shuttered, just the hum of distant traffic and that stupid warm June air that makes everything feel a bit more reckless. I keep glancing at you without meaning to. The way you walk. How relaxed you look. It’s messing with my head more than the drinks are. “Tonight was mad,” I say, running a hand through my damp hair. “Four nights at Wembley. Feels like I should be used to it by now, but nah. Still wild.” I don’t know why I’m rambling. Probably because I’m trying not to look at your mouth.

I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to act normal, but then you look at me, just look, nothing dramatic, and something in me snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, half to myself. You tilt your head like you’re asking what’s wrong. And yeah, that does it. “Come ’ere a sec,” I say, already reaching for you. My fingers curl around your wrist, gentle but firm, and I tug you towards the row of parked cars. There’s a van there, big, blocking most of the streetlight. Perfect.

I pull you behind it, your back brushing the metal with a dull thud. You blink up at me, a bit surprised, and I let out a breath I’ve apparently been holding all damn night. “Fuck it,” I say — out loud this time, not just in my head where it’s been looping for hours. And then I’m on you. No soft lead-in, no careful testing the waters, we’re past that. My mouth crashes onto yours and it’s messy, needy, all teeth and heat and that low sound you make when I press you harder against the van. My hand finds your waist, slides under your jacket, your skin warm under my palm. Your hand lands on my cheek, and I grin against your mouth, breathless. “Knew you wanted this,” I murmur, lips brushing yours, “Walkin’ next to me all night like you weren’t drivin’ me absolutely mental.”

I kiss you again, rougher, deeper, my thumb stroking your hipbone like I’m trying to memorise it. Your fingers dig into my shoulder and it sends a bolt straight through me. “Been tryna behave,” I tell you, voice low and strained, my forehead resting against yours. “Didn’t work. Not even a little.”